Lunareio's lips quirked, though his gaze didn't waver.
"Strange, indeed," he murmured, his tone suggesting he wasn't entirely convinced by her deflection.
He set the cup down with care, the soft clatter amplifying Branna's unease.
"Tell me, where did you find this milk? It's… unusually rich."
Branna's heart thudded, her mind racing for an answer that wouldn't involve mentioning Lilith's unsettling behavior—or the warm, shimmering bottle she'd thrust into her hands.
"Er, the kitchens, my lord," she said, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. "Mara had some fresh stock, just brought in. Goats, I reckon. Really... really good goats."
She winced internally, cursing her own fumbling words.
Good goats? Really, Branna?
Lunareio raised a brow, his faint smile growing.
"Goats," he repeated, as if testing the word. "Fascinating." He leaned back, folding his arms, his dark robes shifting like liquid shadow.
"Well, I meant what I said. I'd like more of it. See to it, will you?"
